Orphan of Ishbal
by Miss Pyromaniac
Summary: All her life she dreamed of something more than the war-riddled life of Ishbal. She was different; the young orphan had always known it. And when finally she's given the glimmering hope of freedom, what secrets will be uncovered by a child's ambition?
1. Prologue

**Thanks for reading my first fanfic! x3**

**Disclaimer: I don't own FMA or it's characters. But the plotline idea is mine.**

It wasn't really all that long ago that I was born; twelve or thirteen short years laden with the kind of mysteries that are all-too-common in a warzone. I don't remember anything of a biological mother or father, for instance, and where I came from is beyond my reasoning. My adoptive mother, an Ishbal widow named Vanessa, had lost her husband to alchemic destruction only days before when she'd stumbled across a small infant wrapped in secondhand cloth and cradled in a basket. With the wailing package was a small folded piece of paper and a small note written across its length: 'please, take care of Sara.' In her story she lifted me from the small basket and held my tiny form in her dirtied, war-stricken hands and gazed down curiously at me. My fiery amber eyes, the stubble of baby hair that was already showing hints of a pretty bronze. I could pass for an Ishbalan, no matter where I'd come from. That evening, with the approaching raids and thunderous bombs at her heels, Vanessa had taken me home.

Not that I remember any of this, because I don't. My earliest memories were at only a few years of age as I played with the neighboring boys. We'd play tag and make mud pies until another raid came and we'd be hastily ushered back indoors. Mother had always been adamant about hiding the violence from me, and I spent most of the time during these moments in her room and under her thin makeshift sheets as she cooed comforting words to be from the door. Then it would all be over, and I would be allowed back out again to continue where we'd left off.

It wasn't tragic, though. All of us counted our blessings and prayed to Ishbala for our splendor. After all, we lived in a smaller settlement, where attacks were fewer than in the larger cities of our kin. The military were horrible, though, and no matter where you lived you were raised to fear them. For this spawned dislike, which grew to distrust and soon outright hatred. But it was too late to keep a child's innocence with him. The world was too cruel for a child to possibly keep any sort of love for their tormentors.

My next sharpest memory was the weeping cries of a funeral that could not be held. I was about four now, and had been over at the shelter of a friend when there was a shattering explosion. Immediately we were thrown into a dark corner to be kept hidden and safe. But even from our safety we could hear the dark laugh of a man as he strutted by as if we weren't there. It was an alchemist, as the adults whispered while we eavesdropped, the man who make men explode with his hands and unholy magic. It had been the building just next door to my own that had fallen, killing the family that had lived inside. I can still remember the figure who tried to crawl shaken from the debris, a mangled figure of my fellow Ishbalan – it was my best friend. They had to hold me back when I tried to escape and run to his side. They knew it was a trick. Before my very eyes he exploded like a bomb, etching the bloody sight permanently into my memory.

It was only a few years after that that a new program was implemented for the Ishbal war. Military soldiers marched into our town with orders to escort us in sorted groups to refugee camps, where we would be 'taken care of'. Nobody believed that. But it wasn't a choice we could make, and over the next two months we were slowly rounded up and led away from our homes.

After that and for a long time after everything was a blur. The trip was long and slow, and the desert unrelenting, but we eventually made it. The place was an old abandoned Ishbal town reconstructed into a makeshift town. There were no more spontaneous explosions here, no more raids or innocent killing, but things were still hard and our supplies were meager. Still, we kept our faith and prayed.

We stayed there until I was nearly fourteen, an adolescent with the heart of a true Ishbal. If there were any doubts that had surfaced when I was first taken home as a pathetic orphan, they had long since dissipated. My eyes may not have held that striking red that my friends had, but the bright amber that they did blaze was close enough. The soft bronze of my hair, chopped short with only the lightest curl at the ends, was native enough. Not to mention that the skin that was once easily considered fair or pale compared to those here was now tanned quite nicely by the unrelenting sun. And besides, I had shared so much with these people already; now was no time to try to set me apart. I was truly one of them.


	2. Departing

**Second chapter is up. Enjoy!**

**Reviews are love. :3**

"Mother, please. I can't just sit here anymore."

It was those brilliant crimson eyes that looked back into my fiery almond ones, filled with a mother's worry – and the fear that hollowed the eyes of anyone who'd lived through the mass murders in the brunt of the Ishbalan war. She held my gaze for a good few moments, and finally sighed with defeat. It had always been hard for her to say no. "It's hard to see you go anywhere," she admitted with a smile, "Even if it's just a trip to the bathroom. Call it that love of a mother who lived a little too close to the edge."

I understood what she meant immediately, and nodded. In the old cities, it wasn't unheard of for a kid even my age to be stolen even if they were only headed across one of the foot-worn roads. But I wouldn't budge, even though I knew I'd already won. "I'll be careful. I promise."

"Oh, I shouldn't be worried about you." Vanessa laughed. "You've always been able to take care of yourself. You're a strong girl." She brought forward her right hand and ruffled my hair affectionately. "But are you sure you want to?"

"Yep," I said, not hesitating for even a moment. "That convoy'll be leaving tomorrow morning, and if I don't catch it there won't be another one for months." Then I grinned. "I'll get something done in the world and come back to tell you all about it. Wait for me, won't you?"

For a fleeting moment I thought I saw a tear spring to her eye, but in the next moment it had been wiped away by a mottled sleeve. "Of course." And without warning she took me in her arms and hugged. It was a comforting gesture, even though I knew my friends were watching me from the end of the barracks, and I hugged her back. Let them have their fun. "I don't think you were every mine," She whispered, glowing as she smiled proudly at me, "never. You were always the adventurous one. Make sure to find whatever it is that you're looking for."

I nodded again, and she broke the hug. "Like I said, don't worry. Love you!" With the casual farewell I was off, bringing my arm up in the arc of a wave before turning around and jogging down the pathway. I didn't dare look back; call it stubborn Ishbal upbringing, but I knew better than to do something to regret later. It was done, and I'd make sure I made the best of it from now on. Stopping before the boys who had indeed been waiting, I gave my cocky grin. "Ready to go?"

"Sure, as long as we won't have to hear you cry about your dear mommy," Franz cheeked, mocking the embrace. I gave him a playful punch in the shoulder.

"Oh, shut up. It's not my fault you've got no mom to say bye to." I scoffed, poking fun at our inside joke: Franz's had always worn her hair notably short and did a lot of brawny jobs, so we inevitably called her a guy from time to time. He pretended to growl, but was interrupted by the other boy who was already walking off.

"You two are slow," Keith remarked airily, striding off as if he was really that cold. It was a rouse, and all three of them knew it. Nonetheless, Franz and I muttered our retorts under our breaths and ran to catch up as we headed to where the convoy was staying their final night.


	3. As A Refugee

**I've finally got the third chapter up; sorry it took so long! I've been extremelly busy with school and marching band, and it took away my muse.**

**Anyway, here's trying for a bit of a longer chapter. The last bit was dialogue from episode 30, in case anybody recognizes it. **

**Enjoy! And remember, reviews are luv. :3**

**DISCLAIMER: I most certainly do not own FMA or any of its characters. However, this particular fanfic and its plotline are mine.**

* * *

It's not easy walking through the endless miles of desert for days on end, no matter how many people you've got to keep your morale alive. Sure, all the climate I could remember living in was the dry eastern villages of Ishbal, and the vast desert plains that surrounded it. But staring at it from a window or dirt road is much different than experiencing the harsh trek for yourself. Nobody complained, though, not when there were surely other of our race worse off somewhere. It was bearable for us, because we knew there was still hope somewhere in our future.

It had been no more than a week since Franz, Keith, and I had set off with the convoy of Ishbalans driven from their homes. We alone were representing our village; nobody else had wanted to go, saying something about how it was safer there and things would be better off soon. Such a desperate testimony could only make me scoff with pity. There was going to be no peace for us in the near future. Us kids couldn't stop fidgeting locked up in one place. Call it childish, but we were out with the hope to change the country somehow. As if we could do anything to make this treatment any better – but trying anyway was better than just sitting around and doing nothing.

My eyes narrowed against the wind as I followed the group across the sandy hills, pulling my muddy brown cloak a little tighter around my shoulders. It was always harsher at the top of the slopes where there was less protection from the elements. Indeed, the view was nice from up here. If one was able to look past the raging billows of dislodged sand, they wound see the underappreciated beauty that the desert gave. Especially at this time of day, nearing sunset, when the sky was alight with a breathtaking array of color stretching far across the barren land.

But with the night came a bitter cold, and already the temperature was starting to drop. It was slowing the convoy down as a few toddlers murmured complaints into their mother's ears, receiving only a light nod and a sympathetic kiss to the forehead. We'd be stopping soon.

And maybe an hour later we finally did, taking shelter in a small rocky outcrop hidden in the side of a large hill. The wind was pleasantly scarce here, allowing for a few particularly warm fires to huddle over, and it wasn't long before many had drifted off to sleep. I myself had found a cozy little alcove where the three of us had manage to keep a small flame going, and we gathered around with our clothes pulled close and listened to the gentle snores of our fellow refugees. The day had been a long one; my hazel eyes had just began to drift when a few whispers from my left caught my attention.

The voices were ones I recognized. In our ramshackle convoy, there were a few in particular who clearly had the leadership roles. One was a burly darker-skinned man who wore the traditional sash of Ishbal, and the other was a lighter-skinned man with gray hair and an odd scar flayed across his face. The second man had caught my interest more than the first had. He somehow seemed vaguely familiar to me, as if I'd seen his face before, but I couldn't put my finger on it. We called him Scar after the marking he bore, and trusted him with our lives. There was no reason to doubt his loyalty, after all.

It was hard to hear the muffled conversation over the wind that whistled tauntingly around our shelter, but I could make out a little of it.

"I've been …. before. I recognize it."

There was a short silence, followed by a short "Hm."

"… Not far ahead. A camp, we can… there by lunchtime."

"Good. We're runn…. Food and provisions."

That was all I really cared to listen to as I brought my hood to my head and lay back against the sand. There was a camp out here? That would undoubtedly mean a few days rest after over a few weeks of travel, or however long it had been. Days were hard to keep track of in this kind of lifestyle, after all. Franz and Keith had already fallen into slumber and I joined them minutes later, my last thought dwindling on the thought of soon having a real bed to sleep on at last.

It seemed that no time had passed at all before we spotted the camp on the uneven horizon – it was funny how time flew when there was hope soon to be had. And the burly man's estimate had been correct, as the sun was perches high atop the midday sky when we finally made our way into the scrappy ramshackle camp. We made our way in and hesitated until a paler man, lacking to Ishbalan look in his eye, advanced with a warm smile. Silent relief swept through our ranks. We would be welcomed here.

"Thank you for such a warm welcome," Our burly man nodded his head in a brief bow, before looking back up. "But you're sure? You realize who we are, and where we're from."

The paler man, however, merely raised a hand to stop him. "Judging by your complexion and eye color, I'm guessing… Ishbalan, right? Well, don't worry. This is a place of refuge for those who have been banished from their homelands for whatever reasons. No questions asked. We accept criminals and military deserters alike. Quite a mix." He reached over, taking a small cup from the table beside him. "Here, you must be thirsty." Despite the calm aura of the man, we all couldn't help but feel even more relaxed. It was good to see that there were still people who could accept an Ishbalan as a friend in such a hostile world.


End file.
